"Anyway, it's awful. Can't something be done for him?"
"I guess we've done about all that can be done."
"Oh, I wish I could help him! I'll tell Ed about him."
"Don't worry about him, Mrs. Field; he ain't worth it."
"Oh yes, he is. I feel he's been a fine fellow, and then he's so
self-accusing."
Her own happiness was so complete, she could not bear to think of
others' misery. She told her husband about Williams, and ended by
asking, "Can't we do something to help the poor fellow?"
Field was not deeply concerned. "No; he's probably past help. Such men
are so set in their habits, nothing but a miracle or hypnotism can save
them. He'll end up as a 'lumber Jack,' as the townsmen call the hands in
the camps."
"But he isn't that, Edward. He's finer, some way. You feel he is. Ask
Mr. Ridgeley."
Ridgeley merely said: "Yes, he seemed to me to be more than a common
hand. But, all the same, it won't be two weeks before he'll be in here
as drunk as a wild cat, wanting to shoot me for holding back his money."
In this way Williams came to be to Mrs. Field a very important figure in
the landscape of that region. She often spoke of him, and on the
following Saturday night, when Field came home, she anxiously asked, "Is
Williams in town?"
"No, he hasn't shown up yet."
She clapped her hands in delight. "Good! good! He's going to win his
fight."
Field laughed. "Don't bet on Williams too soon. We'll hear from him
before the week is out."
"When are we going to visit the camp?" she asked, changing the subject.
"As soon as it warms up a little. It is too cold for you."
She had a laugh at him. "You were the one who wanted to 'plunge into the
snowy vistas.'"
He evaded her joke on him by assuming a careless tone. "I'm not plunging
as much as I was; the snow is too deep."
"When you go I want to go with you--I want to see Williams."
"Ha!" he snorted, melodramatically. "She scorns me faithful heart. She
turns--"
Mrs. Field smiled faintly. "Don't joke about it, Ed. I can't get that
wife out of my mind."